The Last Flame
by ashnificient246andfriends
Summary: "I will be strong because I love you, just as you loved me. My love is not the brief infatuation of a schoolgirl that lasts a few months. This love is different. It is a flame, one that can never be quenched. It will be the last flame within me, the last flame that will never die. It is the flame of my undying love for you, Francis Bonnefoy, who gave my life color."


**Hello!**

 **Thank you for selecting this one-shot to read. You don't know how much it means to me to know I have been noticed!**

 **Anyway, I don't want to be snarky and say something like, "Enjoy!" because I know that if you're an avid FrUK shipper, you won't. But let me assure you; if this one-shot gets some views/maybe a favorite or two/and perhaps a follow, etc., and at least one review or two, I will upload a sequel or further story to this!**

* * *

"Francis," I whispered, breath hitching in my throat.

I was panicking; sweating despite the sharp downpour that showered us, flushed despite the rain's coldness. Below me writhed a pallid man whose mouth was open in a silent cry. His arms and legs flailed as his body jolted upward at a merciless tempo.

I was terribly unsuccessful at calming my hyperventilating breaths as I watched him struggle. They came out in small, quickened gasps. Too short to take in a sufficient amount of air. He was going to die... It was a miracle he survived the shot, but it was unlikely he would make it through the seizure. A broken sob bubbled in my mouth as the tears stung my freezing skin.

A pang of realization gripped me, shaking me to my senses. Francis needed me. He needed me to be strong. To be calm. Because freaking out wouldn't do anything but make matters worse.

The desperate gasps calmed to deep breaths as I pulled myself together. I opened my eyes again to stare down at the soaking blond. The seizure had ceased, leaving a battered figure. Blood had soaked through his white shirt, staining it and dirtying it. The rain did little to wash away the angry red.

I wrapped my arms around him, one hand behind his head to support him, and the other just below his shoulders. I pulled him to me carefully, gently as if I was holding a newborn babe. "Francis, can you hear me?"

It was difficult to perceive any other sound besides the thundering booms that raged on above with the lightning, but my ears perceived a feeble whisper. "Oui..."

The man before me was not the strong, persistent Francis Bonnefoy. Below me was a shaking figure on the verge of... I shook my head.

"Francis, don't worry. I'm going to get you to a hospital... Everything's going to be okay... They can help you, they-"

"Non," he interrupted, "is it too late. Je suis désolé, mon petit lapin."

The tears fell once more and landed on the muddied ground in uneven plops. I used to hate when he called me his little rabbit, but now I wanted to hear it a thousand times from his rosy lips.

"My time has come." A ragged cough burst forth from his mouth. A thin trail of blood trickled down his lower lip and was smeared by the rain dripping from his blond curls. He lifted up a hand and reached for me, and I knew by the puckering of his lips what he wanted.

I had always dreamed of kissing him under the same willow tree where he had first brought a smile to my depressed exterior. I had dreamed of his long arms holding me close to his chest, where I could feel his heartbeat along with my own quickening one. I had dreamed of him making a small, characteristic joke that would make the butterflies flutter in my stomach before ending the last distance between us. But this would be just as special, because it was, sadly, our last kiss.

I closed my eyes and met him; his soft, warm mouth locking with mine in a captivating kiss. My lips moved against his as if they belonged there, and he met my movements with the French precision. How was it possible that I could feel the excitement of a first kiss as well as pain and sorrow all at once? We remained like this until I could feel his strong lips growing slower, as if he was disappearing. I pulled away and blinked down at him through my blurry, tear-filled vision.

"Je t'aime, mon Arthur. Be strong..."

The color faded from the once deep sapphire irises. I always used to gaze into them and wonder how one's eyes could be so beautiful like a summer sky. The light had never faded from them until now. "No, please," I wailed. "Francis!"

But his opened lips were still, resolute. His chest no longer rose. It had fallen for the last time. A pained cry escaped my mouth as I tilted my head to the sky and screamed my agony. Thunder boomed, lightning crashed, and hail began to fall; but none of it could ever take my mind away from the man who had made life colorful.

* * *

I guess I should begin with how I met Francis Bonnefoy; the man who made everything enjoyable, gave me happiness and joy, and made my life complete.

Unlike a lot of those love stories you might've read about, I met the seemingly perverted scoundrel on a rainy day outside of school.

I was sitting under a weeping willow as the raindrops steadily fell from the sky. It was a light, depressing shower. I had buried my head in my kneecaps, arms around my legs and keeping them close to my chest. At that time, I had a rough outlook on life. Everything from the soft voice of my mother, the once breathtaking view of the city and the lick of a puppy was dull, colorless and monotone. I could no longer feel positive emotions such as cheer, serenity, and hope for the future.

At the time, it seemed as if I had everything I needed to be happy. I was brilliant in school, talented with the oboe, and I was raised into a good family with superb parenting. But it wasn't enough to put a smile on my face. It wasn't enough to be able to laugh heartily or to enjoy the life I had.

What was my purpose? To "achieve" things but only lose them in the inevitable embrace of death? What was worth doing if it was all wasted in the end? Life was cruel. It gave you false senses of happiness, of joy and excitement, but in the end it was all snatched away from you like a child's toy.

"Bonjour, mon ami," a spirited voice, not far from where I was slouched, called.

I lifted my head and immediately scowled. Those golden curls, the bright sapphire orbs and the carefree smile were all unmistakable. What was Francis Bonnefoy, lady's man, music know-it-all and romantic, doing here? Why was he staring down at me? Why was he smiling? Why had he spoken to me?

"Why so sad?" He asked in that insufferable French accent. A few raindrops were rolling down from his cheeks in tiny rivulets and dripping from the ends of his hair. It looked soft.

"Go away," I snapped. "I don't wish to converse with someone the likes of you."

My face returned to my kneecaps and stayed there. I could almost feel the burning sensation that meant his eyes were gazing intensively down at me. "Why not? I'm a nice person. I can turn that frown upside down."

Maybe if I ignored him, he would go away. Yes, that seemed like a good idea. I carried out my plan, refusing to say anything or further acknowledge his presence.

"Come on, lift up your head so I can see those beautiful emeralds." I stiffened when I felt the warmth and touch of something draping itself around my shoulders. Was he embracing me?

When I felt a reassuring pat on my back, I knew it must be true. I reluctantly raised my chin again and took the chance of casting a sideways glance. And there he was, body pressed into mine, arm around me. Instinct told me to scoot away, yet I couldn't.

"It's a pretty day, isn't it?" He asked in that annoyingly bright voice.

The ends of my mouth twitched irritably. "No, it's bloody raining," I growled. "If you're trying to make fun of my heritage by commenting on the weather, I swear I am going to-"

Francis pulled his arm away and raised his hands defensively in front of his chest. "Hey, hey, I'm not trying to be that way! I'm sorry if I upset you," he stammered. The display was cute in a way that made my heart pound against me. looked away, mainly to hide the blush on my cheeks. "I think it's pretty," he repeated. "I like to imagine rain as Earth's way of refreshing herself, just like the floods and rain that renewed the land back in Noah's day."

"That's stupid," I murmured stubbornly.

"Non, mon ami. Not if you give it some thought. I know you can do that, because you must in order to maintain the grades you do."

I turned on him, eyes flashing. "Shut up, will you? Stop acting all happy and dreamy, and don't call me 'mon ami'! I don't even know what the bloody hell that means!"

That irritating smile still didn't falter. His mouth didn't even move in the lightest way as a sign of unease. "It means 'my friend'," he beamed, ignoring the rest of my statement.

I crossed my arms, releasing my legs. "I am not your friend, and nor will I ever be, you bloody git."

Not even the slightest hint of sadness in those deep pools. How could someone be so insensitive? "Of course you are! I know you, and you know me, and I am here to cheer you up."

My eyes darkened for a second before I allowed myself to release the tension in defeat. I tilted my chin so I could look at my shoes which had suddenly become very interesting. "You don't give up, do you?" I mumbled.

"Non, never," he chuckled. The arm returned, this time making my heart do an uncoordinated somersault. "Let's not stay out in this rain. I'll take you to my place, D'accord?"

I shook my head, cheeks lighting up. "I don't go home with complete strangers, and wouldn't your parents be offended?"

"My parents are dead."  
My head jerked up and my eyes widened. His parents were dead? "Oh, I'm terribly sorry I-"

The smile hadn't faded from his rosy lips. "Don't be sorry, Arthur. My mother died in childbirth, and my papa was killed in an accident. I've learned to make do."

Pain and... what was that... Empathy? swelled in my heart. "Francis..."

He stood up, extending his hand to me. "Come on, or traffic might delay us." I searched for the faintest hint of sadness in his tone, but there was none. How could someone remain so positive?

"You're not giving me a choice, are you?"  
"Non." His blue irises shined brightly into my own. That smile never wavered.

I rolled my eyes and took his hand, using it to pull myself up. He didn't even flinch at the extra weight. He only wrapped his arm around my waist and led the way to his car. On our way to the parking lot, I caught a few curious stares from onlooking students. Despite his popularity, Francis was infamous for being a hopeless romantic. It must've been quite a surprise to see someone in his arm.

I didn't think I would ever be able to describe the kindness that he showed me that evening. When we reached his car, he went as far to open my door and shut it for me. The drive home was mostly full of silence, occasional interrupted by a question on a subject involving my hobbies, interests, or family.

I answered monotonously, instead focusing on the actions directed towards me that afternoon. Francis Bonnefoy, member of the infamous Bad Friends Trio, had actually acknowledged the presence of myself, a lone, depressed Arthur Kirkland. I found difficulty in believing this 'luck,' as one would call it, and even pinched myself to make a reality check.

It was all real. Suddenly, the wilted leaves on the trees had contrasting colors of red and brown, the soft feel of the cushioned seats in Francis's truck and the seat warmers were welcoming, and the steady whip of windshield wipers was soothing. For the first time in many years, it was as if I had actually began to live.

We arrived at a suite of houses in a quiet neighborhood not ten minutes after we had departed from the school. Francis turned the key in the ignition slot and hopped out, shutting the door behind him. Before I had any chance to open the door on my side, he had already pulled the door to allow me to climb out.

I nodded my thanks and took his hand so I could step out. I hated accepting the offer of help from others, but I hated trucks more and feared them for editing them.

"What's your favorite kind of tea?" Francis asked as we hurried down the stone path to his house, a beautiful structure with open windows with rain streaking down them, tall brown walls and a long, slanted roof. Judging by the house's size, it must have two stories; too much for a man to live alone.

"Earl Grey," I answered, eyes taking in the sight of his home. Again I found it hard to believe I had been found by one of the school's most popular "celebrities" and taken to his house in one afternoon.

Francis unlocked the door and stepped inside quickly to allow me inside. My coat was removed from my stiff shoulders as I stood there, mouth slightly open.

The house was much bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside. We had entered the living room, a large space with a single couch and a few large bean bags placed spin front of a flat screen. A vase of roses and coasters laid on the coffee table, which designed to seat quite a company. The fireplace seemed robe the oldest thing in the room, a small hint that the rest had been refurnished. To the side stood a large but empty fireplace. The fresh soot was evidence that it had been recently used.

Behind the couch was a bar, with stools standing beside it, and beyond that I could see the kitchen. A pang of fear needled me. What if he was an underage alcoholic?

Francis must've noticed my observation, for he rested a hand on my shoulder and laughed, "Don't worry, we only drink soda and water."

I allowed a small sigh of relief to pass my lips. "Come sit by the fireplace. I'll prepare you some tea and something to eat. I hope you like French cuisine."

I nodded slowly, again still in utter disbelief. My heart began to race. I was in Francis Bonnefoy's house! 'Pull yourself together,' a scolding voice in the back of my head snapped at me.

"Are you okay? You look a little flushed, mon ami," Francis teased. Somehow, the way 'mon ami' rolled effortlessly off his tongue made my heart ram against my chest. The butterflies must be having a party in my stomach, for I had never been this embarrassed. He was doing this on purpose, wasn't he? He was just going to use me, as other students had had. He was going to butter me up so I did his homework for him and passed him answers during a test. That was what people before him had done, though they hadn't shone this much kindness nor care.

Nonetheless, a rush of anger surged through me. "I'm fine," I almost snarled, applying heavy emphasis to the last word.

But that anger was followed by sheer satisfaction; for it seemed that I had finally managed to unnerve him a little. His lips quivered, grin falling. "What is wrong? Did I do something?"

I ignored him and sauntered off to the fireplace and plopped down. 'You're being immature, Arthur. Can't you see he's been genuine?' The voice nagged.

I ignored that too and didn't even bother to see how Francis would react. The sound of fading footsteps led me to the conclusion that he was going to carry out his promise of tea and dinner. I stared blankly at the fire before remembering how cold I was. God, Francis, don't you even have a heating system besides a damn fireplace?

If I waited for him, I would catch a cold in my soaking clothes, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. I spotted a pair of gloves next to the fireplace, so I equipped myself with those and pulled a log off the wood rack and set it in the dusty chamber. I grabbed another and positioned it accordingly and added a few sticks and crumbled balls of paper from what I assumed was trash to the pile.

The only missing was the fire itself... I found the match box and struck one until it lit. Then I held it over a paper ball in the pile and released it once a small flame grew. Soon, I had a nice fire crackling. It was warm, but not warm enough to reach my chest in the cold confines of the waterlogged shirt. But there was no way in hell that I would ever remove the article of clothing in a stranger's house. Not even if it was a pleasant stranger, who offered me friendship and food and tea.

After what seemed forever, Francis had returned. "Oh, you made a fire! I did not have I. Mind that you could do so. You are full of surprises!"

My heart somersaulted again, this time sloppier than the first. I hid my embarrassment through a heated snap. "Of course I can make a fire!"

Francis chuckled and set a bowl and steaming cup of tea onto the table. "Désolé, mon ami, I had to figure out how to make the tea." He scratched the back of his neck. "I hope you like it."

I scooted over to the table and stared down at the contents of the bowl. It looked like stew; a mixture of beef and vegetables. Surely this wasn't the French cuisine he had promised?

"Try it, you'll like it," he urged me.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Pot-a-feu," he answered. "It's good when you need something to warm your insides."

I sniffed it hesitantly and my hand found the spoon he had set down next to the bowl. I ate a small bit and my eyebrows rose. This was... Delicious!

In less than a minute I had ravenously conquered the stew and was sipping the liquids left. Francis gave a hearty laugh at my eagerness. "Someone was hungry. I take it you like French stew, non?"

I returned the bowl to the table and blinked. "It's not bad," I murmured. Being English, I came from a family that was naturally unappreciative of French aspects, so it was hard for me to gather the strength to express my enjoyment verbally.

"What's that? I couldn't hear you," Francis teased. "You heard perfectly well what I said, bloody frog."

Francis ignored the blatant insult and pushed the cup of tea towards me. "Drink, mon chéri," he ordered gently.

Deciding not to question what 'mon chéri' meant, I reluctantly obeyed and pulled the cup to my lips, barely taking a sip in case it would burn my tongue. But the tea was just the right temperature, and its flavor was definitely my favorite type of tea.

Francis fidgeted a little, still smiling, but his blue eyes were different from their usual cheerfulness that I had grown wonted to seeing. They were searching and it took me a moment to realize what he was searching for.

"Thank you," I sighed, content for the first time in what seemed forever. His grin widened, and his eyes beamed at me. "Of course."

We sat there in silence for a while, the only noises audible were those of the occasional snap and pop as the flames consumed some of the wood and the myself sipping the tea. It was only until I set the cup of tea down that Francis stirred.

"Arthur, would you be my friend?"

This time my heart flipped. My cheeks paled, thankfully instead of flushing, and the butterflies swarmed in my stomach. "A-aren't we already f-friends?" I stuttered nervously.

Francis rested his elbow on the table and settled his chin in the palm of his hand. The deep pools of sapphire gazed back at me with an unsettling warmth. "I don't want to force you to do anything," he explained.

I nodded slowly and noticed that he had outstretched his other hand to me. It stayed there despite how long it took me to pull myself together. God, this man was persistent. I was afraid to answer him, afraid that my voice would betray me. 'Come on, Arthur. He's just asking to be your friend; it's not like he's proposing to you or anything.'

'Not that he ever would propose to me,' I countered mentally.

"Friends," I murmured quietly, taking his hand with mine.

That smile of his grew, if that was possible, and I was pretty sure that I was blushing again. He gave my hand a good shake and pulled his away, long fingers lightly rubbing against my palm as his grip departed.

Friends. Never in my entire life did I ever expect this moment to come, but I should've guessed it. This was the man who made life colorful, who made my heart feel as if it would leap out of my mouth, who made me feel special. There was no way he was tricking me. There was no way he would be this kind to me just to use me. I could tell that my life was taking a turn out of the dark. A turn into the bright, golden rays of the sun. I had been pulled from the cave; pulled back into color.

* * *

From then on, as long as I was with Francis, I had a brighter outlook on life. I could distinguish the many colors of tulips that my mother grew in her garden. I could hear and feel myself laugh again and I could smile genuinely. I could feel the warmth of a fire, of an embrace, and most importantly, a kiss.

I realized that last part when I gave my last physical goodbye to the hopeless romantic who had stolen my heart.

The tears of pain, remorse, and regret were never-ending.

I collapsed in a messy heap next to his body and placed my head on his stiff chest, searching for the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. But it was no longer there, and neither was the warmth that invaded my space when he embraced me and buried his face in my hair.

I wailed my grief, crying out desperately, praying that this was all just a dream and that I would wake up the next day and go to the place I began to look forward to going everyday where I could fall into the arms of the man who made life colorful. I prayed it was a dream that I could simply tell him, and he would pet my hair and tell me that it was just a nightmare.

But this wasn't a dream. This was real. The burning of hot tears on cold skin, the icy rivulets of rain dripping into the mud and the shaking of the ground from the powerful echoes above was all too real.

Francis told me to be strong. I had told myself I would be for him, because I loved him. But now, I couldn't find it in me; the strength and determination to survive. Right now, I would mourn while I could still feel him. I ran my fingers through his silken curls, ran my fingers over his eyelids, closing them and I ran my fingers over his chest. My hand rested where his heart was located and it remained there.

I will be strong, Francis; strong for the man who was strong for me. I will be strong for the man who had made life colorful, who had opened up my eyes and ears and who had made me laugh and smile. I will be strong for the man who had given me the ability to experience the true feel of happiness.

I will be strong because I love you, just as you loved me. My love is not the brief infatuation of a schoolgirl that lasts a few months. This love is different. It is a flame, one that can never be quenched. It will be the last flame within me, the last flame that will never die. It is the flame of my undying love for you, Francis Bonnefoy, the man who made life colorful.

* * *

 **Again, thank you so much for taking the time to read this!**

 **As I said in the first Author's note, I will upload a story/sequel to this if it gets enough support!**

 **-Shatteredice246**


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